Dragon's Revenge (The Dragon Corps Book 4)

by Natalie Grey

  Dragon’s Revenge

  Natalie Grey

  For Ellie

  Prologue

  Knuckles slammed into her jaw with bruising force and Tera watched the world go sideways as she landed hard on cracked concrete. The smell of garbage mixed with the taste of blood as she launched herself up, quick as a snake. She darted to one of the rickety fire escapes and hauled herself up. Her muscles shook with the effort, but she could not afford weakness now.

  “Come down!” The boys clustered around, jeering. “Come down here, coward!”

  “Don’t!” The word was terrified, half-breaking. Alia shook her head, tears in her eyes. “Don’t come down, Tera, it’s not safe!”

  She wouldn’t have had to if Alia hadn’t drawn the boys’ attention back to her—if she’d just had the sense to run. The girl backed away, trembling, her hair shining gold even under its coating of mud and filth, her too-thin form weak. There were already bruises coming out on her pale skin from the start of the encounter.

  Alia bruised easily, cried easily, cowered easily.

  Why had she needed to be brave now, of all times?

  Tera wavered. She knew what was coming if she went down there: she’d get the beating meant for Alia, the one Alia was getting because she couldn’t stand to be hungry and she couldn’t learn to steal properly, either. What had possessed her to try to take a skewer of meat? She must have known she’d get caught.

  Maybe she’d thought Tera could get her out of it. Frustration and common sense warred with loyalty, and Tera wavered. She should scamper up the fire escape and away, and leave Alia to the punishment she’d earned. Not even Tera could win this fight. It was either Alia getting beaten up or both of them.

  Alia’s first cry changed her mind. At the sickening sound of flesh slamming into flesh, Tera didn’t even think. She launched herself from the metal, hearing it clang against the old brick behind it, and tumbled onto the back of the nearest boy. He went down more easily than she expected and she hit her jaw as they slammed onto the concrete together.

  They rolled, and he was on her the next second, scrabbling for her throat while she hurled her fists at his eyes, his nose, his throat, anything she could reach to keep him rearing back and his strong, long-fingered hands away from her.

  “You shouldn’t have come down.”

  “You shouldn’t hurt my friend!”

  Her defiance was useless, and they both knew it. She tried to roll away, but one of his fists caught the side of her head. Her head ringing, she was too slow to avoid the follow-up—another one of them caught her and held her for a hit to her stomach, one more to her face, and it didn’t matter how she kicked and shrieked, there were too many of them to fight off. She could hear their laughter and felt the tears hot on her cheeks. She hated crying. This was going to hurt, but she wasn’t a baby anymore. She shouldn’t cry because of pain; people who cried that easily didn’t last long on Osiris.

  But she shouldn’t be here. This beating was her fault for coming to Alia’s aid, and the pain was scary, even though she tried to pretend it wasn’t. Worse, when they were done with her, she’d be too hurt to fight off anyone else for days, if not more. Fear gripped her. Were they going to break her fingers? Would they give her Alia’s punishment for the stealing? She fought like a caged animal as they grabbed her hands and pulled them away from her body. She wasn’t strong enough to keep them away, she wasn’t fast enough—

  And then everything stopped.

  “Well, well.” The voice was smooth and light, the sort of voice you heard in the commercials that blared from shop windows. “I think you boys had best run along. Don’t you?”

  Tera, dropped unceremoniously on the ground, tried to remember how to breathe. Someone had hit her right in the stomach, and air was coming in tiny, ragged jerks. Everything was coming with a strange sort of clarity, as if she were breathing in the boys’ terror. It was rolling off them in waves, thick in the air.

  Her eyes were fixed on a pair of shiny black shoes, reflected in one of the dirty puddles that covered the cracked ground of the alleyway. They were covered at the top by pants of deep blue with a crisp crease up the front. Tera had never seen clothes like that. She barely noticed as the boys went pounding away. She just looked up, only her eyes moving, as the owner of the shoes stepped into her line of sight.

  “A most impressive fight.” His face matched his voice, all smoothness and angles.

  “I…” Her mouth tasted like blood. “Too slow.”

  He smiled at that. He was clean-shaven and his skin was about halfway between Alia’s pallor and Tera’s warm copper. His dark hair was drawn sideways, parted neatly, and his eyes were blacker than anything she had ever seen. But his looks didn’t interest her all that much—she’d seen clean people before.

  It was his clothes that got her.

  They almost didn’t seem real. They were all that same, deep blue that seemed to glow in this world of blacks and browns and faded greys, and his chest glittered with bars of gold and color. Tera stared up at him mutely until he crouched down.

  “And who are you?” His eyes crinkled at the sides. He was smiling. At her.

  “Sir…” It was a man’s voice, high with worry. Tera rolled her head, but the owner of it did not come back to view; he must be lingering at the end of the alleyway. His voice trailed off, and Tera pushed herself up to stare around

  Alia was gone. That hurt almost more than her ribs. She’d just up and left Tera with whoever this was.

  “What’s your name?” The man was persistent.

  She looked back and examined him. She’d learned a feral smile that tended to keep rich men away, but this man did not back away from her. Her eyes dropped away first. “Tera.” Her voice was a mutter.

  “Tera.” His voice stayed light and interested, as if she had not tried to scare him off just now. “I see. And where did you learn to fight like that, Tera?”

  She shrugged, not sure where this was going. She’d learned to keep her mouth shut until she knew what someone wanted.

  “Where are your parents, my dear?”

  “Sir…” The younger man again.

  “Quiet, Lee.” Tera’s rescuer cast an annoyed glance over his shoulder. He smiled when he looked back at her. “My dear, I’m sorry he interrupted you. I was asking about your parents.”

  Tera studied him, wary. “I haven’t got any.”

  “Haven’t you? Very interesting. And where do you live?”

  She shrugged again.

  “Won’t anyone miss you if you don’t come home tonight?”

  She considered that. Alia would notice. But Alia had left her here alone. So she shook her head.

  He crouched silently for a long time after that, staring at her while the men behind him shifted uncomfortably.

  “Would you like to come with me?” he asked finally.

  “Yes.” She did not need to think about that. Anyone with clothes that fine came from somewhere better than here, and she was pretty sure she could take this man in a fight if she needed to. Not certain, which was unusual. But pretty sure.

  “Sir, we saw her fight.” The younger man again. He was all pale and pinched with worry, like the younger nuns when they first saw a stabbing and didn’t know what to do with themselves. “I really think she’s a bad choice for—”

  “Lee, I am not quite an idiot.” The man’s voice was suddenly cold. “As it happens, Tera’s … talents … are exactly why I think she should come with us.” He stood and offered her a hand.

  She ignored it and pushed herself out of the puddle on her own. She was abruptly conscious of her dirty clothes and skinned knees.

&nbs
p; “What about my talents?” She tried to mimic his accent.

  His eyebrows raised, both in interest and amusement. He seemed to approve of her attempts to speak like he did. “I was watching you fight. You’re very good at it. You fight a lot, don’t you?”

  Tera nodded.

  “You win fights other people can’t, don’t you, Tera?”

  She nodded again.

  “And you know that sometimes, the only way to solve problems is by fighting—isn’t that right?” He waited for her to nod. “I bet people tell you not to fight, though. They tell you it’s wrong, even though it’s what keeps you safe.”

  He understood. Relief rushed through her, and she nodded jerkily.

  “They don’t understand the world,” he told her. “But I do. So why don’t you come with me, Tera, and I’ll make sure you learn how to fight even better than you do now. I’ll make you the very best. Would you like that?” And he held his hand out to her like he didn’t even care that she’d get dirt all over his clean skin and his lovely clothes.

  Tera reached out, trembling, and put her hand in his. The men around him were scared, but she wasn’t—not anymore. This man understood her. He’d looked right into her eyes and told her the truth, and she had seen the way his face crinkled, like he understood just how she wanted to scream every time the nuns told her not to fight anymore.

  What did they know? They had a safe place to sleep every night, and food at every meal. No one beat them up.

  “What’s your name?” she asked him.

  “Sir.” The younger man sounded like he was about to have a fit.

  “Lee, so help me God, I will have you sent to New Arizona on a permanent posting.”

  “Yes, sir.” The man named Lee subsided.

  “Thank you. I’m sorry, Tera. My name is Aleksandr Soras.”

  Aleksandr Soras. She rolled the words across her tongue silently, feeling them in the edges of her throat. Even the sound of it was rich, miles from this cold street, the first flakes of snow beginning to drift in the air. She stepped out of the alleyway into the bustle of the street, holding tight to the warmth of him, and she felt as if she was being heated from the inside out. Was this what ‘safe’ felt like? She felt her lips move again over the unfamiliar words.

  Aleksandr Soras.

  1

  ALEKSANDR SORAS: THE WARLORD OF YMIR EXPOSED! Major Talon Rift, commander of the 9th Detachment of the Dragon Corps and presently AWOL from a meeting of the Alliance brass, flipped the tabloid open thoughtfully and scanned the contents of the article. HEAD OF ALLIANCE INTELLIGENCE IMPLICATED IN DECADES-LONG SCHEME.

  Heavy brows drew together over green eyes as he read, and he rubbed his fingers absent-mindedly over the dark stubble on his jaw.

  “Sir? Do you really think the Enquirer is going to have reliable information?” The question came from a young petty officer, Liam Morel on official documents, Loki to his crewmates. Though he kept his face customarily blank, his eyes betrayed a hint of worry that his commanding officer was going mad.

  “The Enquirer,” Talon informed him, “trades in wild rumors, and as all there is to go on is wild rumors, it is, therefore, one of the only places willing to take a stab at where Soras might be.” He threw the paper onto the table. “Useless, though. Anyone else have anything?”

  A chorus of “no”s filtered back from around the room. Besides Loki, there were eight Dragons in various stages of battle-readiness, each peering intently at a newspaper or tabloid. Talon’s mouth twitched slightly as he looked at them. Dragons never gave half-effort, and they were taking their reading as seriously as they took everything else. Their expressions ranged from commanding—Jester—to personally betrayed—Sphinx—as they surveyed the various literature.

  Talon leaned back in his chair and sighed. His eyes ached. Since they’d come within range of the messenger buoys, they’d downloaded every piece of information they could find on the trial and present whereabouts of their quarry, and they’d spent the past five hours reading. When their eyes started burning from the computer screens, they’d resorted to printing information, and now even that was taking its toll. He couldn’t fault his crew for their dedication; as the ship jolted and docking clamps came into place with a scrape along the hull, no one even looked up.

  “Major, we’ve been approved for docking.” Nyx’s voice echoed over the loudspeakers. It was perfectly modulated, smooth enough to come from a butler in a historical drama.

  At that, a few eyebrows did come up, and one or two of Talon’s team smothered laughs. Talon encouraged dissent outside of combat, and Nyx was often the voice of the opposition, helping him hone plans with a careful appraisal of the facts. Irreverent and sarcastic, she was always good for a laugh. A polite tone of voice was a sure sign that she was deeply displeased.

  “Thank you, Commander.” Talon matched the tenor of his voice to hers, knowing exactly the unimpressed look she was giving to the comm right now. “Meet me in the airlock. You and Loki will accompany me on this mission.”

  Absolute silence was his answer, as he’d expected. It had been Nyx who gave him a dressing down last night to tell him just how stupid she thought this plan was, and it was Nyx, therefore, who needed to come with him now. Nyx, who was just as ready to see this fail as he was to see it succeed. Between the two of them, they’d have a rational view of the situation, and with Loki around, she might not swear too much.

  Loki, meanwhile, was staring at Talon with something approaching hero worship.

  “I’m coming with you?”

  “Indeed, you are.” Talon pushed himself out of his chair with his usual predatory grace and gave the man a quick smile. “Suit up, Morel. Be at the airlock in three.”

  “Yes, sir.” He disappeared in a veritable blur, and a few of the Dragons smirked.

  “You’re taking him out into that shit show?” one of them asked Talon. At seventeen, Loki—Liam Morel on his papers, though Talon reflected now that the name might also be a lie—was the baby of the group by nearly ten years. Despite the brutally effective chaos he created in combat, and one instance of truly spectacular flirting for a mission, he still projected an air of innocence, and the crew tended to try to protect him from…

  Well, places like this.

  “It’ll be good for him,” Talon said decisively. Despite orbiting one of the central planets of the Alliance—or perhaps because of it—Akintola Station was second to none in the sheer volume of its illicit dealings. Talon wondered what Femi Akintola, the explorer for whom the station was named, would think of his legacy, and grimaced. It was lucky that the man was long dead.

  In the airlock, he was greeted by Nyx, stony-faced, and Loki, who gave the impression of bouncing on the tips of his toes with excitement. Talon bit back a smile as they stepped into the decontamination chamber.

  “You know why I’m bringing you.” It was a reminder.

  “You know why I think this is a horrible idea,” Nyx shot back. She winced slightly as she carefully rotated her torso. Talon knew better than to comment on the mannerism. Modern medicine meant that she was back in fighting form after suffering a shattered rib and four gunshot wounds to the torso only weeks before, but she betrayed the same obsessive worry that every Dragon had when injured—that she’d lost her edge.

  “Oh, come now.” He smiled and checked his weapons as the door slid open. “It’s Lesedi. No one’s better than Lesedi.”

  “And no one richer and more desperate than the Warlord,” Nyx shot back. She looked over at him, and he saw real worry in her brown eyes. “You know it’s not her I’m worried about. We can’t trust anyone right now.”

  “What would you have me do?” Talon asked as they set out. He walked slant-ways, the way everyone did in space stations, to fit more people into the crowded hallways, and he watched passers-by note the value of his armor and his weapons.

  What they were truly looking for, the ever-present and legendary touch of red—they would not find. On Akintola Station, i
t was best not to be a part of the Alliance at any time—and when hunting the Warlord of Ymir, it was best not to be tracked at all. With the leader of Alliance Intelligence—and thus, the Commander of the Dragons Corps—on the run, there were a hundred informants or more who would be only too willing to carry tales of where the Dragons hunted their disgraced leader. Accordingly, Nyx had discarded her red shin guard and Loki no longer wore a red plate on his side, while Talon had dispensed with the customary red tip on the index finger of his right glove.

  Still, their passage was marked. Mercenaries were rarely so well armed as this. By the end of the day, they’d either have a price on their heads or a dozen offers of work. Perhaps both. Talon met the eyes of anyone who dared to look at them and watched them look away hastily, memorizing their faces. The familiar excitement of battle was beating in his blood, and he counted his breaths to keep himself on point. There was no room for error now.

  Lesedi’s new office was near the heart of the station. A recent assassination attempt had sent her into hiding, but she had dropped hints that Tersi had been able to follow as to where they might find her now.

  A nondescript door led to a surprisingly neat office, and she looked up with a smile when they came in. She hung up the phone without a word to the caller and assessed all of them; those eyes, Talon knew, took in Nyx’s distrust and Loki’s wide-eyed innocence.

  “Talon.” She stood, deep brown skin warm and healthy even in the sunless confines of the ship. “You’re about to be disappointed.”

  “And what does that mean?” Talon perched on the edge of her desk, smiling. He wasn’t daunted. Lesedi had never failed him yet. “

  And he should have guessed that Lesedi would know why he was here. Indeed, she only laughed at his question.

  “My dear, you are famously vengeful. It’s one of your charms.” She sat gracefully, back not touching the chair; Lesedi never rested. “You’re also impatient. So, for the past few days, while you so rudely kept me waiting by meandering your way here, I’ve been tracking down the Warlord for you.”